Opera on the Beach
by katreeny
Summary: Kink meme de-anon: Romano is a very good opera singer, but self-conscious about it because he knows he's not professional level. Someone catches him singing and surprises him. Could be considered Prumano if you squint hard enough.


Prussia meandered along the beach in semi-darkness: between the distant lights from the resort and the moonlight he wasn't at any risk of losing his footing.

Despite the summer warmth, there were few people about. Ciro, one of southern Italy's hidden gems as far as Prussia was concerned, wasn't exactly a tourist town. He wasn't quite sure when he'd found the place, but he tried to visit whenever he was at a meeting close enough to make the trip.

The small restaurants, and the fucking awesome Ciro wine, were reason enough. Clear, calm Mediterranean waters and white beaches just made it better, especially at night.

Not that Prussia would come anywhere near the place during the day – his pale skin would fry and peel and that would be so far from awesome he wasn't about to let it happen.

At night, though, when the crowds were mostly gone and he could walk the beaches and pretend he was alone, Prussia loved it. This was one of the places he'd found over the years where he could find just a little hint of peace inside, escape the bloodthirsty monster that was Prussia for just a few hours.

Then he heard the singing: a clear tenor, and the Italian words of the aria: _Nessun dorma!_

Intrigued, he followed the sound.

#

 _Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!_

Romano let his eyes close. There was nobody here, human or otherwise, no-one to mock his voice or claim he could never do the aria justice. Just him, sand under his bare feet, moonlight against his closed eyelids, and the soft sounds of water nearby.

 _Tu pure, o, Principessa, nella tua fredda stanza, guardi le stelle_

Puccini, so full of emotion, of power. Romano focused on the meaning of the music, the adoration of the man for the cold, ruthless princess Turandot, his love who turned her city inside out searching for the man's name before the dawn.

Romano knew emotion, the good and the bad. Expressing the good, that wasn't something he could do well, not outside of singing.

 _che tremano d'amore e di speranza._

Love and hope, what a fuckup. Old memories, the voice masters with their dismissals. _Too light, no depth to the tone._ Opera singers who'd heard him audition – under a false name, of course, he wasn't _that_ stupid! _Oh he knows his music, but the instrument, so flawed. Such a shame._

Flawed, imperfect, not good enough. That was Romano's life.

 _Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me, il nome mio nessun saprà!_

Oh that rang true as well, so few people knew Romano, knew his name. Only his brother and that Spanish idiot knew it. And neither of them really knew _him_. Neither of them understood, nor ever would.

Liquid burned under his closed eyelids: he ignored it, focusing on the gentle rise and fall of the music in his head, in his soul.

 _No, no, sulla tua bocca lo dirò quando la luce splenderà! Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio che ti fa mia!_

Sometimes though, when he was in a good mood and forgot to keep his mouth shut, forgot to hide his imperfect voice, the ladies, they seemed to like it. He could tease and flirt with them because it didn't matter, and surely they only did it because he was accidentally doing something to make them like him. Not because they really liked his singing, or anything about him. That was impossible, and no-one would ever accept a confession of love from the foul-mouthed, bad-tempered half of Italy.

 _(Il nome suo nessun saprà!... e noi dovrem, ahime, morir!)_

The lament of those being killed – tortured: opera plots were often grim, horrible things – to find the unknown man's name, that was Romano's people trapped between so many stronger powers for so many years, and now ruled by the Families. He'd had to become Boss of Bosses just to keep the bastards from shitting in their own living rooms. Metaphorically, although some of them Romano wasn't sure it wasn't literally as well. They weren't the smartest, the Families. Anyone who stood out too much got killed, which meant they culled their own best and brightest.

 _Dilegua, o notte! Tramontate, stelle! Tramontate, stelle!_

The swell of the music towards the final passionate call for the new day to begin and the singer's victory. Romano focused solely on that, letting his body simply channel the composer's glory.

 _All'alba vincerò! vincerò,_

It was something visceral now, flowing through him. His toes curled into the sand and he pulled in a deep breath of salty air for that soaring finish.

 _vincerò!_

Romano let last note fade, holding it until he felt his control over his voice begin to waver. Not enough to escape into his voice, just a tightness to his diaphragm that said he couldn't keep the sound floating on a column of air much longer.

For a long moment, silence seemed to echo around him, silence and peace, then someone sighed.

Romano's eyes snapped open. He stumbled back, wondering how the _fuck_ Prussia had managed to get so close without him even realizing there was another nation in his lands. "Get away from me, bastard!" A knife in his hands, he didn't remember drawing it.

Prussia raised both hands. "Whoa, Romano! I didn't mean to startle you. Seriously, that was fucking _awesome_."

Romano's mouth froze around the curse he'd been starting to say. His heart pounded against his chest, like it was trying to escape. "...what?"

"No shit, your singing is awesome."

That just didn't sound like Prussia. Okay, he used the word 'awesome', but he used it about something that wasn't one of his usual things. "Oh, sure," Romano snarled. "You'll say that now, then you'll go laugh to your idiot friends how dumb little Romano believed every stupid word out of your stupid potato-infected mouth."

Prussia blinked. In the moonlight, his eyes looked almost black against his pale skin. When he spoke, his voice was gentler than Romano had ever heard it before. "I'm serious, Romano," he said. "Sure you don't have the resonance of a professional tenor but you feel the music. I'd rather listen to you than those so-called professionals who've got extra resonance where their brains ought to be."

Romano couldn't help snickering at Prussia's description. He could name a few – well, a lot – of singers like that. Too many of them were his, too.

Moving slowly, he put the knife away. "So what are you doing here?"

"I like the place," Prussia said simply. "I come here when I can just for some of that wine and a bit of peace."

Romano couldn't see it but he could feel Prussia's smile.

"Your singing made this trip special."

"You... you can't tell anyone, you hear me!" Like he could demand anything from _Prussia_ who was still despite dissolution and everything as strong as he'd ever been. "Not your idiot friends, not the potato bastard, not anyone!"

A blink. "I don't see why not." Prussia shrugged. "But if you don't want me to, I won't." He chuckled softly, not that hissing snicker-thing either. "That way I get to keep this as my awesome secret."

Romano couldn't believe it. "I didn't know you even liked opera..." He managed after a few attempts.

The other nation moved a little closer, close enough that Romano could see him smile as he rarely did, without any mockery or cynicism. "I like the music. The stuck up bitches parading themselves around the theaters can go fuck themselves."

 _Oh_. That actually made sense.

Before Romano could think of something to say, Prussia asked softly, "Why do you hide all the good things you do, Italy Romano? You work hard – my brother and I both noticed that a while back – you keep your... shall we say less savory elements? Anyway, you keep them from destroying the law-abiding people. You sing beautifully, you make awesome food and fucking awesome wine. Why hide all that?"

"Because it's not good enough, bastard!" The words were out before Romano could stop them. "It's never fucking good enough."

"Who says that?" Prussia really sounded like he meant it, like he wanted to argue with whoever made Romano unhappy. Which was just... weird. And wrong. Very, very wrong.

Romano threw his hands in the air, gesturing like his idiot brother. "Everyone! No-one! I can see them _look_ it at me!"

Prussia waved a hand. "Fuck them, then. You're the only one who gets to decide if something you do is good enough." There was something in his voice that said he knew what Romano meant, understood what it was to never meet some standard he hadn't asked about or wanted to be judged by. "If they want to argue, send them to me." _Now_ Prussia used his hiss-snicker. "I'll kick their not-at-all-awesome arses from Berlin to Naples and back if you don't want to do it."

That, more than anything else, convinced Romano that Prussia actually _meant_ what he was saying. Not that he was going to admit anything of the sort. "Maybe I'll help you with that."

Prussia laughed, full throated and cheerful, and Romano found himself joining in. Maybe, just maybe, the potato bastard's brother wasn't quite so bad after all. And maybe he'd sing some more, later. After some wine.


End file.
